


To Have and to Hold

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Follower Appreciation [6]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alive Cole Anderson, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Amanda is trying her best to be a good mom, Arranged Marriage, Brotherly Affection, Cole is a little shit, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Family Bonding, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluffy Ending, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hangover, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Making Out, Nobility, Parent Amanda (Detroit: Become Human), Parent Hank Anderson, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name, Wedding Rings, Weddings, learning how to live together, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 21:13:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18080990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: “Lord Anderson, really—,” he breaks off when a servant enters carrying a tray of soup with a weak smelling broth. Connor knows he wouldn’t be able to keep down anything much stronger than this, and his stomach grumbles in gratitude.Before he can reach out for the spoon, the lord plucks it from the tray. Large, warm fingers ensconced in a silk glove find his chin to tug at his gaze. Obeying the pull, Connor meets the Lord’s clear, blue eyes, “You’re my husband, not some merchant off the street. You don’t have to refer to me asLord.”He releases his grip on Connor’s face in favor of retrieving a spoonful of soup. He brings it to Connor’s lips with a quiet, “Eat.” Too queasy to argue, Connor opens his mouth. Warm, salty liquid spills across his tongue and it fills him with heavenly relief. The lord relinquishes the spoon and Connor takes the next several sips under his own steam.Feeling less like he’s about to faint or lose the contents of his stomach, he asks, “How should I refer to you then?”__A fluffy gift fic for a friend on Twitter :) Thanks for the arranged marriage suggestion! I hope it lives up to your expectations <3





	To Have and to Hold

“I look ridiculous,” Connor mutters while fiddling with his new circlet. He preferred his old one. It was less delicate and sat better on his unruly hair.

“You look like a prince,” Niles mutters from a cloud of pillows across the room. Connor glances at him in the mirror and sighs. He sees the jealousy that always lurks beneath the prickly surface of his younger brother’s skin.

Resuming his circlet fidgeting, Connor tries to make him see reason, “You’re no less a prince than I. Not only that, you’ll get to choose who you want to marry. Meanwhile, I’m—,”

“No one wants to marry a second son, Connor. You know that.” Connor winces at the deadened quality of his brother’s voice.

“There’s still time,” Connor insists, pulling the diadem from his head and leaving it on the vanity. He won’t need it until the ceremony. He approaches his brother and seizes his hands in earnest, “You’re still young. Maybe with this union, people will start taking the Stern line seriously again.”

Niles scowls, no doubt letting his thoughts linger on darker memories. Their father’s perfidy had cost them much. Still, he was gone now. Dead and beneath the dirt where he could no longer hurt his family. Amanda had stood strong against the veritable storm that shook the foundation of their bloodline in the aftermath. While her husband had contrived to destabilize the crown, she was able to prove the innocence of herself and her sons.

The Sterns remained noble but nothing comes without a price.

Connor scowls across the room at the circlet once more, “I have no idea what Lord Anderson hopes to gain. Certainly not children.” Connor snorts before adding, “Mother did tell him I’m a man, right?”

Niles gives him a grudging smile, “Yes, he’s quite aware. Did you already forget about the marquess?”

Connor wrinkles his nose, “No, I recall the little lordling. He put mud in my shoes when we first met.” Niles laughs openly for the first time since their mother announced Connor’s betrothal to the duke. As was her wont, she’d been cooler than a fall breeze, slipping it in between buttering her bread and taking the first delicate sip of her soup.

Connor had spluttered hideously and Niles hadn’t bothered to remain at the table to hear her explanation. In truth, Connor didn’t understand it very well himself either.

“This feels like a trap,” he’d protested. “He has nothing to gain from it. Mother, please. I know you wanted me to marry to improve our station, but I don’t like this.”

“No one likes marriage, dear,” had been her final answer on the subject.

Shaking his head, Connor brings his thoughts back to the present, “His name is Cole if my memory isn’t failing me. He didn’t take to me when we met to confirm the details of the marriage.”

“Well, you’ve met your betrothed. That’s more than most blushing brides can say,” Connor punches Niles’ arm in mock outrage.

“If you call seeing him in passing before he talked with mother _meeting him_ then yes. Still, I’m no virginal young girl, you’re right there.” Connor pauses for a moment then asks, “Someone told him that, too, right?”

Niles sighs and rolls his eyes at Connor’s dramatics, “He’s aware you are a thirty-three-year-old man, yes. One would have to assume you’ve dipped your stick by now.”

Connor makes a face, not bothering to engage his brother further in this crude conversation. With what Connor knows must be a massive effort, Niles sets aside his envy for the time being, “You’ll be fine, Connor. It’s not even that far. You can see his estate from across the lake.”

Niles’ words draw Connor’s eyes to the parapet just beyond the window. Peering out over the protective barrier, he sees torches attached to castle walls winking across the calm surface of the water. He knows he’s being ridiculous, but Lord Anderson’s castle looks colder than his own familiar stone walls.

“I’ll burn a torch for you if you’d like. To let you know we’re thinking of you.” Connor smiles at him, appreciating the gesture.

“Check with me after the wedding, and I’ll let you know.” Connor tries to ignore his wedding attire draped over a mannequin and fails. The heavily embroidered, golden brocade trousers shine at him, mocking his attempts. Still, the deep blue, velvet doublet is lovely against the soft, warm brown of his eyes.

Or, maybe, it’s how it makes him feel when he wears it. Their mother didn’t often allow them decadent clothing. Both young men had a single regal outfit while the rest of their attire was modest but respectably noble. With their finances ravaged by their father’s poor decisions, they hadn’t much choice in the matter. As a result, Connor usually leapt at any opportunity to wear it.

Now, he feels cold emptiness when he lets his gaze fall upon it, “I never thought this would be my wedding attire. I suppose I should have.” He rises to run his fingers over the soft material. Niles mutters something indistinct to himself that Connor ignores in favor of continued sulking.

Hesitant fingers at his elbow pull him out of his morose reverie, “I’m not sure when I’ll have another chance to give this to you.” Connor’s eyes dart to Niles’ closed fist, “I had it made…mother doesn’t know—probably wouldn’t approve.”

The ever-present childish wish to break their mother’s strict rules piques his interest, “What is it?”

Niles uncurls his fingers to reveal a ring around a chain, “It’s silver from one of our old mines, from before…Anyway. It’s to remind you of home.” He reaches up to clasp it around his neck, “I know we don’t technically have a coat of arms anymore...” He fades off as he turns Connor to look at him, “But I had our old motto engraved inside the band.”

Holding it close to his eyes, Connor can barely read the script in the dying light of his not-yet candlelit room. Even so, he knows the adage by heart: _Courage in the face of fear_.

Niles isn’t often one to admit to having emotions and the gesture touches Connor more than he has the words to explain. Before he can protest, Connor pulls him into a swift, crushing hug. Uncertain of what to say, Connor can feel awkward tension creeping into the room. Niles shoos it away by grumbling, “You’ve likely bruised me, I’ll have you know.”

Connor winks and gives him a toothy grin, “Something to remember me by.”

The day of the wedding dawns bright, a symbol Amanda declares auspicious. The ceremony itself is simple. They kneel on a dais, linking hands over a stone bowl. A member of the royal clergy drapes a cloth over their grasp and sprinkles symbolic, spiced oils. Never one for religion, Connor doesn’t really remember the point.

He does remember, as the lesser house, Connor is meant to cleanse Lord Anderson’s hands. Some men make a big show of this part, and Connor holds his breath hoping the lord isn’t one of them. He watches Connor with interest but makes no move to subjugate him.

He does, however, hold his hands for a beat longer than Connor anticipated after slipping a cool ring onto his finger. Meeting his gaze fully for the first time during the entire ceremony, Connor’s relieved to see kindness there.

It does not prevent him from drinking the night into oblivion.

He blames Niles after the fact for bringing him goblet after goblet of spiced wine. He remembers the traditional dance when he was only two cups deep and still relatively nimble on his feet. After that, most of it is a blur of Amanda looking displeased, Niles whispering half-formed dirty jokes, and strong hands hooking him under the arms and knees.

He hadn’t fought it, unable to stand much less walk on his own. He’s fairly certain he nuzzled into the soft swell of the person’s chest because the man had rumbled out a pleasing and deep laugh. If he thinks on it for too long, he’s almost certain it was Lord Anderson himself. Such thoughts weigh too much and require an excessive amount of brain space in the face of his throbbing headache.

He spends his first morning as a newlywed confined to an unfamiliar bed, hiding behind blessedly dark curtains. By noon, his aching stomach outweighs his pounding skull, and he drags himself through a labyrinth of halls. Several servants redirect him when he winds up in the scullery.

Finding the dining hall, at last, Connor collapses into a plush chair. He’d admire the quality if the cold sweat breaking across his brow didn’t demand he lie down on the table for fear of vomiting.

“Overindulged, did we?” Lord Anderson calls to him with an amused chuckle. Although he’s speaking at a normal volume, each syllable slams into Connor’s temples like rail spikes. He expects him to laugh or be irritated. Instead, a cool rag presses at the nape of his neck. Connor’s fingers drift up to press at it and his fingertips brush against the Lord’s. _My husband’s_ he corrects in his mind with a groan.

“I don’t usually drink like that,” he mumbles miserably into the tablecloth. He’s making a terrible first impression, he knows, but the lord doesn’t seem to hold it against him. He calls for a butler and rumbles a request in a tone too quiet for Connor to make out over his labored breathing. He focuses instead on not hurling bile on his only nice set of clothes.

Running a hand down his shirt, he startles to realize he’s not in the fine regalia from the day before. Panicked, he lurches to his feet only to tilt dangerously to the left. Lord Anderson’s hands engulf his shoulders, steadying him, “Whoa, now. Where—,”

“Where are my clothes?” Connor interrupts, worried he’d done something unfixable to them the night before.

“Calm down,” Lord Anderson’s voice washes over him deep and steady. Unlike when his father would bark at him as a child to calm himself, the Lord’s directive holds an effective kindness. “I didn’t want you rumpling them. I found you a suitable substitute for sleeping from your trunks.”

Connor relaxes momentarily before suspicion takes root in his guts, “And how did I get into the _suitable substitute_ , Lord Anderson?”

Using the man’s title feels odd, but he has no other option. _My lord_ is too plebian and he certainly isn’t about to call him by an infantile sobriquet.

Instead of rankling or showing irritation, the man gives him an easy laugh, “There’s only one person in this castle capable of carrying you and helping you to bed when made out of rubberized flesh infused with wine.”

Connor flushes at the implication, realizing his husband undressed him for the first time while he was unconscious. He shifts and thanks God for small graces when he feels his underclothes still intact. Sensing Connor’s discomfort, Lord Anderson offers, “I granted you as much decency as the situation allowed.”

Connor is certain he meant it to be reassuring, but all it does is further entrench his mortification, “I shamed myself and you, Lord Anderson. I apologize for—,”

“Nonsense,” the large man cuts him off, “It was our wedding. At least someone enjoyed it.” He winks at him and Connor groans.

“Lord Anderson, really—,” he breaks off when a servant enters carrying a tray of soup with a weak smelling broth. Connor knows he wouldn’t be able to keep down anything much stronger than this, and his stomach grumbles in gratitude.

Before he can reach out for the spoon, the lord plucks it from the tray. Large, warm fingers ensconced in a silk glove find his chin to tug at his gaze. Obeying the pull, Connor meets the Lord’s clear, blue eyes, “You’re my husband, not some merchant off the street. You don’t have to refer to me as _Lord_.”

He releases his grip on Connor’s face in favor of retrieving a spoonful of soup. He brings it to Connor’s lips with a quiet, “Eat.” Too queasy to argue, Connor opens his mouth. Warm, salty liquid spills across his tongue and it fills him with heavenly relief. The lord relinquishes the spoon and Connor takes the next several sips under his own steam.

Feeling less like he’s about to faint or lose the contents of his stomach, he asks, “How should I refer to you then?”

Before the lord can answer, a grumpy looking man in soldier’s clothing storms into the room, “Henry, have you even _looked_ at my reports?” Lord Anderson grimaces and Connor isn’t certain if it’s the newcomer’s familiarity with him or because he’s behind on his work.

“Captain, how many times have I asked you _not_ to call me that,” he pinches at the bridge of his nose, but it does nothing to cow the man.

The captain firms his stance, giving no ground to the argument, “How many times have you told me you’re going to _read_ my reports rather than use them as kindling for your fires?” Connor sees the lord conceal a smile behind a napkin.

Ridding the humor from his mouth, the lord sweeps his hand in Connor’s direction, “Jeffrey, meet my husband, Connor.” The captain’s eyes dart over to Connor’s before widening a fraction. He drops hastily to one knee and Connor does his best to not look like a hungover mess.

This was the part of nobility Connor disliked the most. Growing up, he’d lost playmates when their mothers learned of his lineage. Even though never a powerful house, the Sterns were a noble bloodline firmly entrenched in history. His father’s wicked temper didn’t help much, either. Seeing this man so at ease with Lord Anderson and so stiff with him makes his stomach turn worse than it already is.

He misses most of the man’s mumbled apologies for not recognizing him before Connor can wave him back onto his feet, “Please, this isn’t necessary.”

Hank gives him a look that’s equal parts approval and amusement, “As I’ve told you countless times, Jeffrey, this sort of pageantry is only required at formal events.”

The captain returns to his full height with a scowl at the lord, “If that’s the case then, have those reports read by tonight or I’m having the men hurl fish into your bedroom window with the trebuchet.” He gives both men a slight bow before turning on his heel and exiting the dining hall.

After a moment of silence, Connor asks weakly, “I take it you don’t like _Henry_ either?”

The Lord’s mouth quirks up at one corner, “Not particularly. The late Lady Anderson insisted on calling me that anytime she was upset with me, which was quite often. God rest her soul.” Connor had heard of the lady’s untimely passing. The young marquess had taken it hard—was still taking it hard by all accounts.

Still without an answer, Connor motions at him with a spin of his wrist, “So…?”

“Ah, right,” the lord pushes away from the table and offers Connor his hand. Having eaten as much soup as his stomach will allow, Connor accepts it. He wants nothing more than to return to bed and sleep away the remainder of the day. When the lord doesn’t release his hold, Connor lifts his gaze.

The Lord raises his hand to his lips before pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his wrist, “Call me Hank.” He turns and pulls Connor along behind him. Wrist tingling, Connor decides it’s for the best as he has no idea how to make it back to his room on his own anyway. Knowing his luck, he’d wind up in the courtyard, retching next to the pigs.

He balks when Lord Ander—Hank—opens a door that leads, quite clearly, to his personal rooms. “Come, Connor.” Even though it costs his throbbing head dearly, Connor yanks back. He knows what is expected of him in this bedchamber and he is in no condition.

Cool, silk-covered fingers find his cheek, “You have nothing to fear from me. There are, however, some things we need to discuss. In private.” Relaxing a fraction, Connor crosses the threshold while scanning the room for a place to collapse before he passes out on the stone-flagged floor. If he’s honest, that seems the most appealing option given that it will at least be cool and his head feels like it’s simmering in a stew.

Peering at him with growing concern, Hank offers, “Maybe you should lie down. Wine from the Anderson vineyards is a good bit stronger than most are used to.” That would explain how he got so drunk so quickly and why the after-effects are the worst Connor’s ever experienced.

Lowering himself with as much dignity as possible, Connor sprawls face first across a large four-poster bed. The coverings are plush and soft against his cheek; Connor’s certain it would take a miracle to get him to move from this spot for the rest of the afternoon.

“I’ve heard you’re curious as to why I agreed to your mother’s proposition.” Unable to carry on conversation, Connor contents himself to let Hank speak at his leisure. “It’s not surprising given that, when not soaked to the gills in wine, I’ve heard you’re a clever man.” Connor groans and buries his face more thoroughly into the bedding.

The mattress dips and he peeks out to see Hank wearing a kind smile, “I understand that an aging widow was not likely your first choice in partner.” Truth be told, Connor hadn’t given it much thought. He’d always known he had no say in the matter and had never bothered to form romantic attachments as a result.

Still, he hadn’t been upset by the idea of Hank himself. In fact, the man embodied many of the traits Connor used to surreptitiously eye while at court. He was tall and broad; he had the look of a man that could snap an enemy in half if necessary even if it wasn’t something he relished doing. He was a powerhouse without resorting to cruelty as his father had. It was refreshing even if it raised his suspicions.

“Can I be honest?” Connor cringes at the words, but Hank’s response will determine a lot about how their marriage will function going forward.

Warm, pleasant laughter bubbles from his thick chest, sending vibrations through the mattress, “I’d prefer it.”

Connor pushes himself upright and waits for his aching head to cease its throbbing. Feeling like death vigorously stirred in a boiling pot, he doesn’t have the energy to mince words, “I have no issue with you as a husband.” Hank moves to speak, but Connor holds up his hand weakly to indicate he’s not done, “My concern lies in the disparity of our fortunes. Everyone knows the Sterns are only noble in name. We have no funds—mother barely had enough to put together a hope chest for my dower. You have nothing to gain from this union. It makes me…wary.”

Hank gives him an appraising look, “Clever and smart. That’ll be useful.” Uncertain if the flattery is meant to unbalance him, Connor remains silent. Scrubbing a hand over his beard, Hank surges to his feet to dig in an ornate curio cabinet. He extracts a cameo profile of a woman with long hair.

He tosses it to Connor, and he catches it despite his persistent queasiness, “The late Lady Anderson. She was clever and smart as well. Ours wasn’t a happy match, but we made it work. We made Cole.” He breaks off in a fond smile before continuing, “I’d like ours to be a better marriage. She was an efficient partner in politics and parenting, but…”

He fades off and Connor can tell he doesn’t wish to speak ill of the dead. He tilts his head, regretting the motion immediately, but pushes through it, “I know what it’s like to be lonely.”

Hank gives him a sharp look before murmuring, “I’d imagine you would.” Connor suppresses a shiver at the thought that Hank likely researched him thoroughly before agreeing to the wedding. The thought that Hank knows more about him than he does himself is unsettling.

“I imagine there are things your mother didn’t elaborate on about our marriage,” Hank offers the start of an explanation Connor had wheedled his mother about for weeks.

Still, he can’t contain the snort of derision, “Mother is very skilled at speaking without saying much of anything.”

Hank laughs his agreement, “She’s a shrewd woman. You owe her your life.” Connor knows it’s true on many levels. It doesn’t stop him from resenting his treatment as a pawn on her chessboard. He knows she loves him; he knows she was trying to do the best she could by him while also securing their family’s precarious perch in society. It doesn’t stop the simmering anger at not being asked once for his opinion.

Hank must see his stormy expression because a warm hand cups his face, “Allow me to explain.” At Connor’s slight nod, Hank sinks back onto the bed so Connor doesn’t have to crane his head up to look at him, “My late wife’s family is…displeased by her passing.” The word choice is bizarre and Connor waits in quiet interest, “Under usual circumstances, Cole would be the heir apparent and life would continue on uninterrupted. The Lady’s family is not usual.”

Connor stares at him, no less confused than when the conversation started, “I don’t understand. He’s yours, isn’t he?”

Hank gives him a warning look, “Yes, he’s mine. The Lady’s family takes issue with our disparate opinions on politics. They wish to wage war; I do not. The Lady agreed with me and they honored her opinion. Now that she’s passed, they mean to claim Cole in opposition of me. They’d puppet him at the head—,”

“Absolutely not,” Connor interrupts without meaning to. He knows firsthand what it’s like to be at the whim of a violent family member out for blood. The not too distant memory of his father haunts him from the fringes.

Hank gives him a pleased smile, “I quite agree. What your family lacks in wealth, your mother more than makes up for with respect at court. If the Lady’s family wants to wage a war, they’ll have to overcome your mother’s influence and integrity as well as my superior financial situation.”

Connor nods, but his brows remain knit, “I don’t understand why mother couldn’t just _tell_ me as much. It would have put me a great deal more at ease.” He hadn’t realized how much tension had built between his shoulder blades since learning of his betrothal. Although irritated, his muscles unknot at Hank’s explanation. He lets himself sink back onto the bed as his eyes drift close against a wave of exhaustion that follows.

“Your mother had concerns,” Connor hums out a sound that could be a question. “About my being a man, specifically.”

Connor opens one bleary, ironic eye, “That’s not going to be a problem.” He doesn’t miss the warmth in Hank’s gaze before he shuts his eyes against the dim light of the room.

“I surmised as much,” Hank’s voice reaches him through a sleepy fog. Connor nearly drifts off until Hank continues in a quiet tone, “Parents have a way of overlooking their children’s true desires.”

Connor struggles against the siren’s song of sleep, “We’re not talking about me anymore, are we?”

Hank shakes his head, “You’ll have a harder time from Cole than you ever will from me. He misses his mother and he doesn’t understand why this,” he breaks off to gesture between the two of them, “is necessary.”

“At least we have something in common,” Connor mutters without thinking. It only lasts for a moment, but he doesn’t miss Hank’s stricken expression. “Oh—no! I didn’t mean,” he breaks off in a groan.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to explain. This union was all rather sudden.” Hank moves to rise from the bed and Connor can feel a cold sadness building in the distance between them.

He reaches out a weak grip, but his fingers closing around Hank’s pauses the large man in his tracks, “I want to. I only meant I know how it feels when parents make decisions that will affect their children’s lives without consulting them. I understand it now, but I’m an adult. Cole is still a child. It might give us something useful to build upon.”

Hank squeezes at Connor’s hand, “Maybe you’re right.”

As is often the case in Connor’s life, he is not. The marquess has zero desire to discuss his father with Connor. In fact, he gives no inclination that he wishes to speak to Connor about anything at all.

Short of luring him into some trick and laughing at his expense, Connor isn’t sure he even knows what the young lord sounds like. He sinks into a foul humor during evening meals—something Hank insists they all do together regardless of the day’s schedule—and refuses to answer his father’s questions other than grunting an acknowledgment.

It comes to a head at the end of Connor’s first fortnight in the castle. At the time, he wasn’t certain how he felt about his rooms attaching to Hank’s. Hank had assured him he’d have his privacy, but that Hank’s door was always open should he need him. On this evening, he’s glad the door isn’t barred against him. Stumbling blindly into the antechamber off Hank’s bedroom that connects to his own, he calls out to him in favor of colliding with a wall.

Hearing the slight note of panic in Connor’s voice, Hank walks with greater urgency to find him. “Connor? What’s wron—oh, of all the swiving pigs in Wayne. What happened?” Turning toward Hank’s voice, Connor wipes at the paint decorating his face as best he can.

“I should’ve realized,” he mutters more to himself than his husband. “Cole suggested we paint together. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me much less indicated an interest in doing anything with me. I thought he meant canvasses. Apparently, he meant _dump buckets of paint from the balcony onto Connor_.” He tries to keep his tone light-hearted, but, even though he’s blinking paint from his eyes, he can tell Hank is angry.

“COLE!” His voice booms like a canon launched from a ship, the shrapnel of it echoing around the stone walls. As if summoned by teleportation, Cole materializes within seconds. Cole, like all children, possesses that sixth sense of knowing when they’ve taken a practical joke too far.

“Don’t be angry, father,” Cole arranges his face in what must be his most congenial and contrite expression.

It does nothing to sway Hank’s disposition, “Don’t give me that look, boy.”

Dropping the act, Cole sighs and transforms into the ornery whelp Connor’s come to know well, “It was just a _jest_.” Connor can tell Cole is forcing as much disregard and spoiled unpleasantness into his tone as he can; it sets his teeth on edge.

A weary resignation settles onto Hank’s features, making him look older than his years. As he opens his mouth to decree whatever punishment he deems fit, Connor takes matters into his own hands. Scooping a large quantity of congealing paint off his own head, he brings it down onto the young lord’s hair with exaggerated intent.

Cole goes ramrod straight at the contact as Hank erupts in laughter. With a few squelching pats, Connor grins down at the stunned marquess, “Why, yes, Cole. You can help me clean up the paint in the entrance hall.”

Spluttering worse than ever, Cole immediately protests, “What? I—no, I never—,”

Quick on the uptake, Hank nods magnanimously, “Oh, yes. You’re such a considerate lad. What a kind gesture to help Connor.”

“But, I didn’t—,”

Cole tries to step away, but his father’s forbidding tone roots his feet to the floor, “It’s that or you can muck out the horse stalls. Take your pick.”

With an acquiescent droop of his shoulders, Cole mutters an agreement and slouches off in the direction of the mess. It takes the better part of two hours to get the paint out of the grooves of the flagged floors, but Connor considers it a win.

By the end, Cole is speaking without any of his signature bitterness. When he learns of Cole’s interest in falconry, Connor knows he’s found his in with the boy. Agreeing to show him how to better train his own bird of prey in the coming week, Connor takes his leave to scrub the paint from his hair.

Toweling at his curling locks, he hastily throws on a shirt at a knock at his inner chamber door. He knows it must be Hank, that no door is technically closed to him in this castle, but he appreciates the gesture all the same.

Connor calls for him to come in, and Hank eyes his damp hair and loose shirt before speaking, “Cole just sought me out to apologize for his unlordly behavior. He also had a lot to say about his falcon.”

Connor shrugs, trying to contain a grin, “He seemed more interested in the idea of teaching his bird tricks than the actual sport.”

“He’s a typical child. He’d much rather play than do genuine work. I’ll have to bring that to heal someday; for now, it’s good to let him be innocent while he can.” A small pulse of warmth rolls across Connor’s skin at the paternal display. His own father never allowed for play or fun unless it was the byproduct of work—which was almost never to a young boy. Cole’s years of frivolity are numbered; Connor’s glad he’ll get to enjoy them.

Hank’s hand on his face startles him back into the present. “You still have some paint here,” he offers by way of explanation. He finds a washrag by the nearby basin, but draws back his hand when Connor reaches out to take it, “May I?”

 _Oh_ is the only coherent thought his scrambled brain can produce as he nods. The room is quite suddenly too hot and Connor too underdressed for this, but Hank continues on unaware of Connor’s frantic heart beating in his chest.

He’s gentle despite his size, as if afraid he might break Connor if he grips him too firmly. Feather-light, he tilts Connor’s chin up and to the left for better access to his throat. Dragging the cloth across his neck several times, he runs his thumb over it before pronouncing himself satisfied. “There,” his voice cants more toward a charged whisper than casual conversation. “You’re perfect again. Good as new.”

More than aware of Hank’s hand still at his neck, he wonders if the man can feel the heat creep through his skin as a blush consumes him from his collarbones to his scalp. Like a fortuneteller reading tea leaves, Connor can see their future together taking shape behind blue irises. Hank’s fingers drift from his throat to the open neck of his shirt leaving trails of fire in their wake.

“Hank,” he whispers his name. Although hushed, it has enough force to shatter whatever mental dams have held Hank’s composure. He surges down and Connor has to make a concerted effort not to be swept away in the kiss. Hank’s lips are soft and warm on his. His large hands glide easily under the shirt, pressing Connor close to him. In that unyielding embrace, Connor learns what it means to be claimed. He’s fairly certain it would take an act of God to get Hank to release him.

He hopes God is busy.

He isn’t ready to come to Hank’s bed yet, both of them know that, but it’s enough for Hank to hold Connor like this and for Connor to let him. With enough moments like these, intimacy will come. For the first night since his arrival, he doesn’t walk the balcony to see if Niles lit a torch. Content to spin the ring on the chain, his heart doesn’t ache so badly for home.

Another month passes before Niles finds a free moment to visit, which is well enough as it gives Connor time to adapt to his new roles as a husband and parent figure. Although a mere lake divides them, the journey on land is less direct and a good deal more cumbersome. Pulling Niles into a short embrace, he glances at his scant baggage, “Mother didn’t want to come with you?”

“She assumed you wouldn’t want her here, actually.” Stung, a sullen mood threatens to overshadow his brother’s visit before he continues, “I told her that was lunacy. She’ll be along at the end of the week to _retrieve_ me as she put it.”

Coles takes to Niles much faster than he did Connor, which the elder sibling finds distinctly unfair. It isn’t until he learns that Niles taught him the grand art of decorating a ceiling with spitballs that he fully understands their bond.

The next to last night of Niles’ visit finds Connor draped across the soft comforter of a familiar four-poster bed. Stomach flat to the mattress, his face rests in the crook of his arm while Hank traces lazy circles into the sheen of his naked back, “Your brother has asked me on several occasions now if I have made an honest husband out of you yet.”

Connor raises an eyebrow at him over the swell of his bicep, “That seems rather…unusual even for Niles.”

“He was flustered and wording it poorly. I think he meant to ask me of my intentions—if I planned to honor our union or stray from the marital bed, that is.” He pauses for a moment, “I think he was attempting to be intimidating.”

Connor rolls onto his back in a fit of laughter and Hank watches the muscles of his stomach contract with every chuckle. Reigning in his mirth, he mutters, “So what did you tell him?”

Hank’s fingers resume pressing whorls into Connor’s skin, “I told him a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell and that he ought to ask you if he wants to know so badly.”

Connor snorts before offering a verbal reply, “I can imagine his response to that.”

“He called me a number of colorful names before pronouncing me an ingrate and uncooperative brother at law.” Connor’s laugh fades into a sigh as Hank’s hand drifts to his hip.

He pulls him into a kiss before breaking off to pepper a trail down Connor’s neck. When a deep sound rumbles at the back of his throat, Connor pushes at his chest playfully, “You can’t be serious. Again?”

Hungry blue eyes chase the amusement from Connor’s tone, “I’d have you all day, every day if you’d let me.”

Under different circumstances, Connor would laugh. As it stands, he’s having a difficult enough time remembering to breathe under Hank’s gaze and wandering hands. A loud crash reminds him they have a guest and a rogue child hell-bent on terrorizing the castle staff with their antics. He’s amazed they managed to finagle a quiet hour of privacy at all.

With a massive effort of will and a roll of his eyes, Hank drags himself from their bed, “I’ll see what the terrible twosome is up to now. Thank God your mother is coming to get Niles tomorrow.”

Connor watches Hank dress, making no move to do so himself. Feeling his heated stare, Hank turns to speak just to be pulled back down into a kiss. The bed groans at the sudden weight and Connor agrees, enjoying the press of Hank’s body against his.

“What happened to _you can’t be serious_?” Hank mimics him in amusement.

Connor reaches a hand between them to tug at his beard, “You’re my husband. I’ll kiss you whenever I want to.” Hank grins into his mouth but Connor concedes his point. At a second loud crash followed by a shout, Hank hastily throws on his clothes while grumbling about bad houseguests. Connor dresses at a more normal pace, taking the time to tuck in his shirt.

Stopping at the mirror, he clasps the chain Niles gave him around his neck. Fingering at the ring resting there, he smiles at the one glinting on his hand as well. He decides that while his mother is usually right, he finds he does rather like marriage after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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